By Jim Zumbo
My dad sold Dodges for 30 years. I hated the ugly SOBs. When I was 16 he got me a helluva deal on what? A ‘53 ugly black goddamned Dodge.
My buddies were driving around in souped-up Fords and Chevys with cool glass pack mufflers, but I plodded around in that POS that had a ding-dong bell that I’d ring when the girls were walking on the sidewalk after school. They weren’t impressed.
But pretty soon by God I got me a pink and black ‘56 Ford with fender skirts and lots of chrome. I can’t tell you how many times a black Buick would pull alongside me on Broadway just as one of the dudes inside would lean out the window and say, “Hey, man, you wanna sell that motherfucka?”
Later in college my grandfather passed and I inherited his 1956 tri-color lime green Dodge with big fins. I loved my grandfather, but not his ugly-ass Dodge.
After starting my first job as a forest ranger I bought a brand-new Ford pickup for $3,000. I was making $5K a year and my draft status was 1A. That salesman was hard up for a sale.
After a series of Ford pickups I switched to Chevys. Since then I’ve worn out my 7th, and now I’m thinking about a Toyota.
Should it be electric? Not in a million fucking years, but then again, that’s what I said when pickups evolved from my beloved stick shift with five on the floor to automatic transmissions, and when power windows and headlight dimmer switches moved from the floor to the steering wheel.
So … never say never, except … when someone tries to sell me a damned Dodge.
